I recently found myself at a casino.  Not to gamble, mind you, but to speak at the first-ever U.S. Access Board town hall in Rhode Island.  The Board requested public input on the status of accessibility in the smallest state in the country.  This was the first time they’ve met in the state, so it was kind of a big deal to Lil Rhody.  Though the casino had ample parking, I couldn’t find the power-assist doors and struggled to get into the building. 

Inside, there were at least 20 tables filled with attendees. The room was a sea of mobility: manual sporty chairs, zippy electric ones, solid supportive ones, walkers, canes, crutches, and rollators. There were two ASL interpreters and some materials available in Braille. For that day and that place, the non-typical was the majority.

The town hall served as a forum for residents, advocates, and local officials to voice concerns that are often overlooked. Many spoke of the lack of sidewalks, issues with snow removal, and inaccessible public transportation.  Others advocated for more resources for disabled veterans, the aging population, and developmental disabilities in particular. Several were exasperated by little to no enforcement of the ADA. 

When it was my turn to speak, I explained what it’s like to be a person living with multiple sclerosis.  Mostly, I shared my unnecessary struggle for accessibility as a part of my everyday life.  In closing, I asked the board to consider leveraging the experiences of people with disabilities to help ensure accessibility is actually possible.

After the final speaker was done, they asked if anyone had anything else they’d like to say.  I looked around, raised my hand, and the mic was passed to me.  I took the moment to remind everyone that the ADA is not the gold standard for accessibility, it is just the beginning, and that we can do better.

Later on, a young woman made a plate of food and brought it to a table for me.  She’s only the second person I’ve ever let do that for me outside of my family.  A little bit later, I realized that while my wheelchair battery was still pretty full, my personal one was not.  It takes a lot of energy to listen to and feel the despair of a large group of people.  I decided it was time to go home and made my way out to the parking lot.  A man saw me about to lift my wheelchair into the trunk and stopped to help me. 

These random acts of kindness give me hope that while the system is broken, the community is strong.  It reminded me why I spoke up at the end: because we cannot settle for the ADA as our final goal. If we treat a 30-year-old law as the gold standard, then we ignore the daily, preventable barriers that still exist. Moving forward, we need to ensure that the people who actually navigate these barriers are the ones helping to dismantle them. 

True accessibility isn't just about meeting a code; it’s about creating a society where I don’t have to rely on the luck of a stranger’s help to get home.